


Here With You

by ScottieIsImpatient



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury, Heavy Angst, Near Death, Torture, cliffhanger ending, not a deathfic but close to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottieIsImpatient/pseuds/ScottieIsImpatient
Summary: Malcolm gives away his standing as tactical officer to a group of hostile aliens. That can never be a good thing.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Here With You

**Author's Note:**

> I am a sick and twisted bastard and I take it out on fictional characters apparently  
> :)  
> Yeah, this is another angst fic involving Malcolm. Whoopee. Do I just LOVE hurting this boi.
> 
> Okay so it's not EXTREMELY graphic but I put that archive warning there just in case bc it does get heavy and also involves lotta blood and talk about death.
> 
> This was originally going to be a deathfic. Consider yourselves lucky!

He and Malcolm always seem to get themselves in fucked up situations no matter where they go, but this one takes the cake for being the most fucked up situation of them all. _Just once,_ Trip thinks, _I would like to have a peaceful away mission. Just goddam once._

A sob catches in his throat when he realizes he may never have the opportunity to go on an away mission ever again.

“No,” the commander whispers to the empty cell. “Yer the optimist, Trip. Yer not allowed t’ think like this.”

Great, now he’s talking about himself in the third person. He really _is_ losing his marbles.

To be fair, his own voice is the only one he’s heard for days- or has it been weeks now? He’d been separated from Malcolm the moment the Trithir’s laid their hands on the team, and that was only because Malcolm yelled out his rank as tactical officer.

Damn Malcolm. Always playing the hero.

_“He’s just an engineer, and a bloody horrible one at that! He can’t tell you anything.”_

Horrible? A humourless smile crosses Trip’s face as he remembers the words. Just who was it that got the Suliban cloaking system working in time? Who was it that purged the _Enterprise’_ s protocols in just under a minute? _And you_ dare _call me horrible, Malcolm._

Trip knows Malcolm didn’t mean it, of course. It was merely a ploy to keep attention off of Trip. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, the Trithir’s seemed more likely to believe a tactical officer than a “horrible engineer”.

Trip sighs and stretches his legs. The joints crack and ache from being curled in so long and his shoes feel like they’re made of lead. The wood bench is beginning to hurt his ass. When was the last time he actually moved? He can’t remember. Hours; maybe even an entire day. The food they gave him still sits untouched by the small slit at the bottom of the door. It’s some kind of oat-like substance but it moves around and changes colour like a disco light.

Surprisingly, it tastes decent.

But Trip doesn’t feel like eating right now.

He begins to pace in a slow and methodical figure-8 motion. The movement makes him quite dizzy. He wonders when he’ll be allotted his next water ration.

A massive clang ricochets down the hallway. He still isn’t sure what makes this noise, but it happens twice a day and is typically followed by a low rumbling which lasts maybe two minutes. He uses it as a marker to tell time. This marks the fifteenth time, which brings his total stay up to seven and a half days. Likely longer, considering the first few were of foggy confusion and hideous screams.

He still can’t quite convince himself they came from Malcolm.

 _Who else would they be?_ his mind tries to insist. _What other prisoners have you seen here?_

But Malcolm doesn’t scream, so it can’t be him.

Sure enough, the rumbling starts beneath Trip’s feet and vibrates all through his body. It sounds like water. Perhaps some sort of plumbing system.

The idea of a plumbing system being used in a prison bunker is laughable, especially considering Trip’s own “toilet” is nothing but a hole in the floor.

Trip runs a hand through greasy blond hair and exhales slowly.

That’s when he notices the rumbling has stopped long before it should have.

The change would typically mean absolutely nothing, but it means _something_ to Trip, for in place of the rumbling, rapid taps and faint weapons fire has emerged. Voices add to the jumble of foreign sounds, too. Familiar voices, though he can’t make out their words yet.

 _Rescue._ Trip thinks. But how?

No matter. There isn’t any time to think about that now. On shaking legs, Trip stumbles for the metal door to his cell and practically collapses against it.

“Hey!” he yells in a hoarse voice. “Cap’n! In here!”

He’s banging on the door with his fists and even kicks it a few times, just in case his cell happens to be soundproof. “Cap’n!” Are the voices getting closer or farther? He can’t tell. His head hurts too much. He isn’t used to standing up this long. “Anybody? Hey!”

Just when he’s sure his legs are going to give in, hurrying footsteps make their way towards him and the door is hauled open. Trip can’t catch himself before he falls forward and lands hard against the floor.

Rough hands grab at his arms and unceremoniously drag him to his feet. Head still spinning, Trip has to blink a few times to fully comprehend what is going on. It’s not a rescue party, he soon realizes. Two of the Trithirs have him in an iron grip; their bug-like eyes drill into his soul and their sharp antennas are angled towards him. Weakly, he tries to pull away.

They don’t say anything as they half drag half shove Trip down the dark and winding corridors. Not to him, at least. The commander catches words exchanged between each other, but it’s spoken in their mother tongue and he can’t make out a word of it. The phaser fire behind them is gradually becoming fainter and fainter.

“What’s going on?” Trip tries as they round a millionth bend. “Where’re you takin’ me?”

The response is a disgruntled, “quiet.”

The maze ends at a metal door identical to the one that shut Trip off from the outside world. There’s a rather complicated locking system which he would have loved to learn more about - had these creatures not been hostile, of course.

Trip doesn’t have time to brace himself before they toss him inside the new room. The door slams shut a split second later, the thundering sound echoing in his ears. “Bastards,” he mutters as he gets to his feet.

The new room isn’t much different from the last one: a single lightbulb - barely functioning –, a wood bench, and a hole in the floor. When he finally lifts his hands off the floor, they come away wet. About a centimetre of water covers the ground. Trip wipes them on his uniform and turns back to the metal door. There’s no way he’s busting out of here; it’s been reinforced with titanium and whatever other alien metals this planet has.

Trip’s frustrated groan seems to bounce off the walls, and it takes a few seconds for the realization to sink in that it’s not merely an echo.

He whirls around. His hand flies down to his thigh out of habit, groping for a phantom phaser. Among the darkness, Trip’s eye catches a flash of movement coming from the corner, and his stomach drops. How could he not see him before?

“Malcolm!”

Trip practically skids to his knees at his friends’ side, the jagged stone cutting into his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. The top of Malcolm’s uniform has been stripped away, leaving him half a battered jumpsuit and a thin blue T-shirt. His hair is soaked from what Trip presumes to be attempts at waterboarding – the _fuckers_. His skin is pale as paper and littered with lacerations; he’s shaking like a leaf.

“Malcolm,” Trip says again, his voice catching. Gingerly, he reaches out and shakes his shoulder lightly. Malcolm gasps and flinches away from the touch. It’s now that Trip notices Malcolm’s hands are bound, and pieces of the same rope sit about a metre away from his feet.

 _God,_ Trip thinks. He wants to throw up. He wants to cry.

“Malcolm,” Trip repeats for the third time. Finally, Malcolm’s blue-grey eyes blink open with a considerable amount of effort, but they are hollow and broken… and fearful. Trip isn’t used to seeing this in a man usually so collected and reserved.

For a minute or two, Malcolm’s gaze is unfocused and panicked. His eyes dart around, unseeing, until they finally settle on the man kneeling above him.

“Trip.” Malcolm’s voice is a barely audible croak.

“Hey,” Trip whispers. “Good t’ see you.”

Malcolm’s gaze slips back into a haze. Inaudible mutterings escape the man’s lips, only adding to Trip’s worry. Surely, Malcolm didn’t have a breaking point? He _can’t_ have a breaking point.

The Lieutenant returns to reality much faster this time. “You okay?”

Trip holds back an ironic laugh. “Me?” he sputters. “You look like _hell,_ Malcolm.”

“S’rry.” Malcolm’s eyes close. Trip shakes his shoulder. “Hey, hey, don’t you give up on me like that.”

“Didn’t.” Blue-grey eyes flutter back open, but his gaze is fixated on the ceiling. “Didn’t give anything. Don’t worry.”

Whatever it was keeping Trip’s heart together shatters. It’s all he can do to not gather the man up in his arms and give him a “big ol’ bearhug” as his mamma would say. “Aw, Malcolm. Cap’n don’t care about that.” He begins untying the binds that hold Malcolm’s wrists together, wincing at where the rope has cut into his skin.

Malcolm furrows his brow, as if confused. “Captain,” he says slowly. He seems to consider the word for a moment before turning back to Trip, who has tossed the rope behind him. “Captain okay?”

“Cap’n’s fine,” Trip reassures him, not entirely sure where the sudden urgency in Malcolm’s tone came from. “He was never on the away team, remember?”

“No.” Malcolm gives a small shake of his head. “That’s right.” He starts to push himself up off the floor, to which Trip flings his arms out. “Jus’ what d’you think yer doin’, Malcolm?”

Malcolm, apparently exhausted from simply rolling onto his back, closes his eyes. “Have to… get out…”

 _He’s right,_ a nagging voice in the back of Trip’s head says. The commander takes one glance at the metal door and shakes his head. “We ain’t goin’ anywhere, Malcolm. Door’s sealed shut.”

This doesn’t seem to deter the Lieutenant, who proceeds to lift himself up into a sitting position. He’s staring at his untied hands as if unsure what to do with them. “Get out,” he whispers ominously. “Can’t hurt you more if you’re out.”

“ _Me?_ They didn’t even touch me!”

A slight lie, but what they did to Trip on the first day barely constituted as a beating. A blow to the face and the abdomen. Nothing compared to what the man sitting in front of him faced.

Malcolm looks up at Trip with the first sign of lucidity the commander has seen. A terrified urgency floods his blue-grey eyes as he says, “you were screaming.”

The truth sinks in before Trip can even open his mouth.

_Those Trithir bastards better hope I never lay eyes on them again._

“Malcolm,” Trp begins slowly, gently taking the Lieutenant’s hand, “that wasn’t me. I don’t know what the hell they did t’ you, but I swear, they barely lay a finger on me.”

After a distressingly long pause, Malcolm nods.

Trip frowns. Something is wrong.

He just barely manages to catch him before Malcolm’s eyes roll back. “What’s wrong?” he exclaims, lowering the man back down. “Malcolm!”

Thick, red blood stains the shallow water beneath them, and Trip’s heart stops.

The full extent of Malcolm’s injuries becomes startingly apparent. A jagged stab wound on his lower right side bleeds profusely and shows no sign of stopping; likely an act of panic on the Trithir’s part when they heard the shuttlepod land. A surge of anger latches onto the ball of indescribable emotions Trip is feeling, the blood pumping in his ears getting louder.

“Aw, hell,” the commander hisses. “We’re not givin’ up.”

“Trip?”

“Don’t talk.” _That voice is too small to be yers._ “That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

Trip takes off his filthy away team jacket and ties it around Malcolm’s waist in a crude attempt to stop the blood flow. “Why didn’t you tell me, damnit?”

He doesn’t expect a response, but Malcolm, of course, offers one anyway.

“Didn’t want to worry you.”

Trip, unsure of what to do otherwise, swears.

The phaser fire is getting closer but not close enough that Trip can hear footsteps along with it. _Cap’n takin’ a tour or somethin’?_ Trip thinks harshly. Regret hits him almost immediately. The Trithir’s stand well over six feet tall and are equipped with natural armour. Of course it would take a while.

So lost in his own dark thoughts, Trip doesn’t even notice Malcolm struggling up until the Lieutenant has made it onto his knees, using the wall to brace himself.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” the commander exclaims, grabbing Malcolm’s arm. “Yer not goin’ anywhere.”

Malcolm shakes his head like a wet dog. Water droplets – or perhaps it’s perspiration – drip down his forehead. “I can hear them,” he gasps out.

“That door is heavily reinforced.”

“I can…” he licks his lips. “The passcode… saw ‘em.”

“The passcode?” Trip echoes. Malcolm nods impatiently.

“Five-oh-eight-eight-six-three-eight-oh. Let me…”

“You can barely breathe,” Trip says, a little harsher than he meant it to be. “Five-oh-eight-eight-six-three-eight-oh. I have a good memory, y’know.”

“Oh?” Malcolm raises his eyebrows weakly and smiles. There’s blood on his teeth. “I would… never’ve guessed.”

Trip’s grin feels wrong, but he’s too worked up to do anything about it.

Malcolm’s passcode turns out to be correct; with a few clicks and the whirr of machinery, the door slides open. A little heavy, but Trip manages to get it about halfway.

“Good,” Malcolm says as Trip makes his way back. “Go.”

“I’m not leavin’ you here t’ die.” Trip doesn’t even waste a second. He knows Malcolm too well. “Not here.”

Not in this filthy place, which reeks of torture from every angle. No; Malcolm Reed is going down guns blazing in the heat of some battle, not bleeding out on a stone floor in some alien prison structure.

“Now, this may hurt a bit.”

Perhaps “a bit” is an understatement. Though Malcolm barely so much as squeaks as he’s hauled to his feet, the look on his face says enough. Trip’s stomach does a whole front flip and he’s terrified the lieutenant will pass out.

“Fine,” Malcolm gasps out. Trip almost misses it. The lieutenant’s free hand is glued to his right side, stained with red. Trip would pray, but he’s not a religious man, so he decides to swear at whatever demon resides in hell instead.

It seems to take an eternity to just reach the exit. By now, phaser fire has become scarce, and Trip can’t decide whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. Could Archer and the team really be…?

 _No,_ Trip snaps at himself. Captain Archer would send the entire ship down if he could. They’re here somewhere. He just has to find them.

The corridor splits off into two directions: straight and left. Trip takes the left. Everything’s starting to look the same, but he can distinctly remember running into the room from the left side.

Exhaustion awaits in the shadows. He’s never wanted a glass of water more in his life.

 _Malcolm’s the priority,_ he reminds himself, glancing the pale figure he’s half dragging around the place. _Malcolm first._ A couple unsteady steps. Malcolm’s growing paler by the second and his breathing has become much more laboured.

Trip doesn’t mean to drop him. He isn’t even sure where Malcolm’s spasm came from – simple exhaustion or a conscious move to try and escape Trip’s grasp? Later, Trip will consider the latter the most likely option.

He doesn’t even have time to blink before Malcolm hits the floor with a sickening _thunk._ Trip falls to his knees a split second later; his eyes wide, heart buzzing. He grabs Malcolm by both shoulders and rolls him over so that Trip’s elbow is cradling his head. Trip’s one leg away from straddling him, at this point. “Malcolm!”

Malcolm’s unfocused gaze struggles to reach Trip’s. “Commander…”

“Don’t you even _try_ and use rank, you sunnava bitch.” Trip’s vision is blurred by tears. He forces them away. “What did I say earlier?”

A ghost of a smile crosses Malcolm’s face. “No talkin’.”

“And?”

“Not here,” Malcolm whispers, but his answer is interrupted by a different voice echoing down the hallways.

 _“Trip!_ ”

Trip’s head snaps up, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Malcolm, as if the man would somehow vanish if he looked away. “Y’hear that?”

Malcolm swallows and eventually nods. “Captain.”

“Yer not dyin’.” He can still see into that horrible room from where they lie. “Cap’n’s gonna make sure o’ that.”

“Captain can’t… help,” Malcolm says between shallow breaths. His eyes gaze into the ceiling as if it’s the most fascinating thing in his life, and Trip feels weighted a sense of horror come crashing down.

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes Malcolm back into reality. “No way. No. Don’t think yer escapin’ that easy, Malcolm.”

“Trip-”

“Not like this.” God, won’t the tears just _go away?_ “No way in hell. Not even if it froze over.”

“…Trip…”

“No chance. No fucking chance.” Is he trying to convince Malcolm or himself? “Not while-”

“Trip!”

Trip jumps in surprise and glances back down to the man in his arms, who seems to have used up most of his strength just to shout that one word. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s gone even paler now. _Do you even have any blood left?_ Trip wonders darkly.

Malcolm’s eyes are closed but he’s still breathing. Still kicking. “Trip,” he mutters. “S’alright.”

“Oh, sure.” Trip just can’t bite back the sarcasm in his voice. “Yer only malnourished and beaten to a pulp and got a _massive stab wound_ in yer stomach, but yer just fine an’ dandy!”

When Malcolm opens his eyes, Trip sees concern dancing in them.

Concern for _him._

“You said ‘not here’,” Malcolm slurs. “Not dyin’ here.”

Trip sniffs. “I stand by what I said.”

A sound comes from Malcolm’s throat, something reminiscent of a chuckle, but it turns into a groan of pain as the movement reaches the wound.

“’m dying here, Trip. S’alright.”

“Like hell you are,” says Trip, voice breaking. “Listen. You can hear th’ cap’n comin’ this way.” Really, he can’t hear a thing, but he assumes Malcolm is too out of it to notice.

Malcolm only smiles and shakes his head at this. “S’alright,” he repeats in a whisper. “’s long’s you’re here.”

“No, Malcolm.” Trip grabs Malcolm’s hand and squeezes and it’s probably too hard but a part of him hopes it will be enough to keep Malcolm going until help arrives. A voice bounces off the halls from somewhere faraway and Trip holds Malcolm’s hand tighter, refusing to let go even when Archer bursts in and shouts for medical help; refusing to let go even when someone runs a medical scanner over Malcolm’s body and requests an emergency transport up.

“You have to let go, Trip,” Archer tells him softly. A sob breaks free from Trip’s throat. No, he’s not letting go. Malcolm isn’t dead yet, goddamnit, he’s not giving up.

Archer has to physically pry Trip’s hand away from Malcolm’s to allow the transporter to bring Malcolm up to the ship; up where it’s safe. Archer grabs Trip and pulls him into a hug so tight it’s almost suffocating, and Trip lets himself break in his captain’s – no, his _friend’s_ – arms.

“He’ll be alright,” Archer whispers into Trip’s hair. “Phlox will fix him right up.”

He knows this, of course. Phlox is one of the best doctor’s anyone on Enterprise has ever seen. If anyone can make Malcolm better, it’s Phlox, and Malcolm’s too stubborn to die anyway.

Trip looks down at himself; at his blood crusted uniform. Blood that isn’t his own. Blood that stains not only his arms and body, but his very soul.

And Trip cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I stop? Yes. WILL I stop? No.


End file.
